


Saving Throw

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Communication, Getting Together, Guitarist Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mentions of Other Voltron Paladins, Monsters & Mana (Voltron), Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 07, Season 8 Doesn't Exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: The Paladins start playing a weekly session of Monsters & Mana. But when it comes to a game that requires description and imagination (talking, basically), it only clarifies to Keith just how many things he and Shirodon'ttalk about.





	Saving Throw

**Author's Note:**

> This is my [sheithlentines](https://twitter.com/sheithlentines) gift for [Xell.](https://twitter.com/zuccheramelo) Their request was for Monsters & Mana fic, with Keith's character getting created/explored. (Your entire wishlist was so GOOD I had such a tough time choosing which one to go with-- but I hope you like what I came up with!) 
> 
> Also a HUGE thank you to [Juna](https://twitter.com/springofviolets) for reading this over for me. Thanks for all your nitpicky comments-- and larger comments, too, of course. ilu ♥

“Alright,” Keith says, slow and uncertain. He frowns down at the arrangement on the table, all the little figurines and scenery on the holomap. “So… we’re basically just telling a story while pretending to be fake people.” 

“Well, a group story,” Shiro agrees. “We just don’t know yet where the adventure’s going to go or how it’ll end.” 

Shiro tilts his head, smiling at Keith, all encouragement and gentleness. It’s the kind of smile that always manages to make Keith feel squirmy inside. Shiro’s always been good at that. The kind of devastatingly kind and handsome without realizing he is. His smile is too much. Keith has to look away. 

“Coran knows,” Keith says instead of lingering on his embarrassing thoughts. 

Coran looks up from arranging some bullet points on his datapad. He twists his mustache. It shouldn’t be as nefarious as it looks, and yet it does. 

Keith’s heard stories from Pidge and Hunk about the first session of Monsters & Mana, so he really can’t be surprised that Coran’s already starting in on intimidation. But Keith refuses to consider a twisting mustache as psychological warfare.

“As the Lore Master, I might know the outline and basics of the adventure, but it’s up to all of you how your story ends,” he says, and it’s definitely _ominous._

“Come on, Keith, we told you this part,” Pidge dismisses with a wave of her hand. 

And that much is true. When the morning debrief ended, Iverson packing everything up and breaking for lunch, Pidge had cornered Keith and told him that she and Hunk were putting together a Monsters & Mana session. 

_You want in this time?_ Pidge asked. 

Keith almost refused in the moment. But then he considered how excited Shiro would be. He remembered how excited Shiro had seemed, months ago, when Keith was lying in a hospital bed and Shiro was trying to pass the time with distracting stories. One afternoon, he’d spent hours describing his paladin character. It’d been the most animated he’d seemed in months. 

_Yeah, okay,_ Keith ended up telling Pidge. Keith would do anything to help Shiro keep feeling that way. The choice was obvious. 

He remembers Pidge and Hunk talking about Monsters & Mana on the journey back to earth, but only vaguely. He spent so much of that trip worrying about getting everyone home safely, spent so much time worrying about Shiro, who spent the bulk of the journey sleeping or silent. It’s a stark difference from how he looks now, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Happy. Alive. 

Keith gives Shiro a helpless, vaguely apologetic look. “I don’t know. Maybe I should let you guys do this on your own. You know how to play already and I’ll just—” 

“Don’t be silly, Keith,” Allura interrupts, kindly, as she hands over a datapad loaded up with the character-creation interface. “Last time, Lance and I joined the game late and we picked it up relatively quickly.”

“Besides,” Shiro says, his voice low as he nudges his shoulder up against Keith’s. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.” 

Keith refuses to blush, because it’s an inane enough statement that he really doesn’t need to read into too deeply. It’s just Shiro being Shiro. Shiro always says something like that. It doesn’t mean Keith isn’t grateful, of course. But, not for the first time, Keith reminds himself that it’s an innocent enough statement— something Shiro would say to anyone at the table. It doesn’t mean anything more than that and Keith’s traitorous heart needs to calm down. 

“Guess it can’t be too hard if Lance picked it up quickly,” Keith decides, and gives Shiro a faint smile, hoping he isn’t blushing. Shiro is a burning warmth sitting beside him, their thighs so close to pressing together, his shoulder still pressed against his for only a moment before Shiro shifts away again. It’s a lot. 

Keith takes a steadying breath. He’s used to being so close to Shiro. It practically defines their friendship, after all.

“ _Hey_!” Lance protests. “You’re just jealous cause the awesome ninja assassin character is already taken.” 

Keith makes sure Lance is looking at him before he rolls his eyes, hard enough that he nearly gives himself a headache. Lance sputters, just like Keith knew he would. He hides his smirk by ducking his head enough that his hair swings forward along his jaw and blocks his face. 

“All you have to do is input the information into those boxes and we can get started,” Coran declares once Keith turns his attention to the datapad. “Might be best if Keith’s character has some backstory with one of the other characters,” Coran tells them all. “Makes for easier incorporation into the story. Or, you can have your character volunteer to join their quest early on. It’s up to you and what you think your character would do.” 

“I don’t know if Pike would trust a random person trying to join the party,” Lance announces to the group. 

Pidge sweeps in before Keith can say something scathing: “Pike’s an idiot. And _he_ joined the group late.” 

“My character could know Shiro’s,” Keith offers. He hesitates before glancing up at Shiro. “If that’s okay.”

Shiro beams. “Yeah, of course it is!” His voice goes quiet, almost shy, when he adds, “I mean… you’ve already heard me ramble about his backstory enough to know it pretty well, right?” 

“Yeah,” Keith answers. He nudges his shoulder against Shiro’s. “I’m a paladin expert now.” He’s teasing and Shiro laughs, pressing his elbow into Keith’s side and jostling him. Keith laughs and squirms away. “I never knew I’d know a made-up character’s favorite color and favorite season, too, and yet here I am.” 

“Oh, come on!” Lance groans. “First Shiro insists his character is _always_ a paladin, _then_ literally names his character after himself. Now, Keith and Shiro know each other? The point is this is supposed to be a fantasy game! You know, made up characters?” 

Shiro goes quiet beside him, his finger tracing over the headpiece on his figurine’s head. He’s frowning thoughtfully. He doesn’t look upset, necessarily, but it’s enough to make Keith feel immediately defensive. 

“You want my character to know yours instead, _Pike_?” Keith asks, sarcastic.

Lance scoffs. “No way. Pike and Valayun have a good thing going and we don’t need some weird interloper. Right, Allura?” 

“I don’t mind if Keith’s character and mine know each other,” Allura says. 

“Right! The more the merrier!” Lance agrees, overly bright. “As long as Keith’s character knows he’s _just_ Valayun’s friend and definitely the third wheel.”

Keith isn’t listening to them. He’s looking at Shiro. Shiro studies his figurine and then sets it down. He must feel Keith’s eyes on him because he turns his head and looks at Keith. He smiles. 

Keith studies his face for any traces of sadness, of stress, of _something._ Whatever it is that made Shiro go quiet. Whatever it is seems gone now or hidden away enough that Keith can’t uncover it. The longer he looks, the softer Shiro’s eyes go, and soon his smile is just as warm as before. Keith holds his eyes for a moment too long and then reminds himself to look away.

“Whatever,” Keith says to the group, then turns to Coran. “I’ll just join the group late.” 

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks. His hand rests on the spot between them, just a breath away from Keith’s thigh. He sounds earnest, which is always the worst part. “Our characters could be childhood friends, maybe.” 

“It’s okay. I’ll figure it out,” Keith tells Shiro. He ducks his head and stares at the character traits, selecting a few at random. 

He lets a beat pass. Shiro doesn’t insist.

Keith clears his throat. “So… what fighting types are left? What’d be most helpful to the team?” 

Shiro says, “You should pick one that’d be most interesting to you, Keith.” 

“The others are a fighter, sorcerer, archer, thief—” Coran begins. 

“Hey, you mean ninja assassin!”

“— and paladin. So that still leaves a few options,” Coran continues, ignoring Lance entirely. “There’s maven, mage, cleric, klazgool, bard…” 

“What’s a bard?” Keith asks, if only because he doesn’t know if he wants to figure out what a klazgool is. 

“Ah, a very versatile class!” Coran looks like he’s about to launch into a long explanation but, after taking one glance at Keith, simply says with a demure cough, “They can fight and use magic— their words weave power. Oh, and they sing.” 

“Ha, oh. I don’t know,” Keith decides, feeling self-conscious. He knows the character isn’t _him_ but, “I don’t— singing is…” 

“You have a nice singing voice, Keith,” Shiro cuts in, smiling. Keith’s ears turn pink. 

“Yeah, but bards are supposed to be charming and persuasive!” Lance declares. “We’re talking about Keith here. Definitely not charming.”

“He can be persuasive, though,” Hunk says. 

“He should be a klazgool,” Lance decides. “More fighters that can just take hits, you know? We need a tank that isn’t going to die constantly.”

“I only died twice last time,” Shiro insists, laughing. It’s a joke, but something spikes in Keith’s heart, anyway, and then drops down hard to squirm anxiously in his gut. 

“Having a bard would probably give our party more balance,” Pidge cuts in, stroking her chin as she studies the holomap. “Shiro and I can do the heavy-lifting in battle. We have Hunk for magic, Allura for ranged attacks, and Lance to trigger all the traps. Bards have some healing spells, so that might be our best option in addition to another fighter.” 

“Klazgools have potions!” 

“Or Keith could be a cleric,” Hunk offers. “Then it wouldn’t matter how many potions we have.”

Pidge snorts. “Keith, a cleric? Please.” 

Everything sounds like nonsense to him, but he has bard selected so he confirms the choice on the datapad and shrugs. “Whatever. I’ll be a bard.” 

Keith clicks away at a few other selections as his stats fill out. The numbers next to the different attributes mean very little to Keith, but he figures he’ll figure it out sooner or later.

“Alright, Keith, as a bard, you get to have an instrument of your choice. That’s how you’ll cast your spells,” Coran says. 

Keith considers for a moment. His cheeks burn red when he offers, quiet, “Uhh… guitar?” 

“Guitars don’t exist in the Monsters & Mana lore,” Coran dismisses. “What about a lute or a fiddle?” 

“Uh. Oh. Okay. I’ll go with lute,” Keith decides and the item appears in his inventory. “Okay, I’m, uh… a half-groc bard named— Thunderstorm Darkness.” 

There’s a brief pause and then the others start laughing. Lance gasps out, “I’m sorry, _what_?” 

Keith furrows his brows. “What? That’s a fantasy name.” 

“For a twelve-year-old, maybe!” Pidge laughs. 

“Hunk’s character is named _Block_ ,” Keith protests, frowning. “Thunderstorm Darkness is a normal name.”

“The edgy bard. This oughta be good,” Lance mutters, elbowing Hunk in the side. Keith rolls his eyes again and glances towards Shiro.

Shiro’s smiling at him, looking amused but not outright laughing at him, at least. That’s fine, then. 

“It’s better than Jiro,” Shiro says with a shrug. “Does he have a nickname?” 

“He answers only to the full name,” Keith declares just to be petulant, and can’t hold back his little smile as he looks at Shiro. Shiro laughs, and something blooms inside Keith’s chest, warm and curling. 

“Alright. Should we get started?” Coran asks, and cracks his knuckles in a way that is, of course, vaguely threatening. “Keith, we’ve explained the basics to you. Let me know if you need clarification, but most of this will become clear as we go along.” 

“Sure,” Keith answers.

Coran clears his throat and he stoops down, half his face blocked by the holographic mountains rising on the north end of the holomap. With a voice darkened dramatically, Coran begins: “When we last joined our heroes, they’d only just narrowly escaped certain death. Having defeated the treacherous Dakin, injured and uncertain, you all drag yourselves away from the lair. You journey for half a day and now find yourselves at a humble neighboring village, enjoying the culinary delights of the local tavern.”

Coran paints the scene— the flickering firelight, the barkeep with the handsome face and ginger mustache, the goblin woman giving Meklavar the once-over (also with a ginger mustache), the creaky floors and the thudding door rattling in its frame from wind, the rainclouds gathering outside, threatening thunder. 

Keith’s quiet as he listens and focuses more on watching his friends. They’re focused on the board, moving their pieces across the map. Block goes to the bar to get information, while Meklavar goes chat up the goblin in pursuit of the same. Pike attempts to steal a drink and ends up tripping over nothing. Valayun and Jiro grab the biggest table available to save spots for everyone else. Jiro’s sure to sit with his back to the wall, watching the door closely, even as the rain begins to pour.

“Keith, Thunderstorm Darkness hasn’t entered yet,” Coran explains. “But any time you’re ready.”

“Oh. Uh.” The others look up at him expectantly. “Okay. I walk in.” 

“Keith! You have to be more descriptive than that,” Hunk says. 

Keith presses his lips together. “I open the door and walk in.” 

“Alright,” Coran says, cutting in. “The door opens with a loud bang of lightning streaking across the sky. The heavy rain comes splattering in, staining across the floorboards. The figure stands there, mysterious and cloaked, the long fabric licking at his ankles as the wind rattles him. The tavern falls silent—”

Coran sweeps his hand out, dramatic, signifying a hush. 

“— and all turn to look at this new arrival. He stands there for a moment, and then pushes his hood back away from his face.” Coran pauses and then says, overly cheerful, “I need everyone to roll a charisma saving throw.” 

“What? Why?” Lance asks. 

“Keith’s character is a half-groc. That species has an inherent allure that weaker characters need to resist.” 

“What happens if they don’t?” 

“I guess you’ll see,” Coran says with a threatening wink. 

Everyone takes turns rolling the twenty-sided die. Coran hums after each roll, taking his notes. He reveals nothing for the moment and merely indicates that it’s Hunk’s turn. 

 

-

 

Block watches this stranger enter and push back his hood. Hands full the tray of drinks he’s bought for all his injured, tired friends, he gives an inviting nod. He approaches the table Jiro and Valayun saved for all of them, stepping over Pike’s prone form on the floor. 

“This should help,” he declares to the group, and catches Meklavar’s eye from across the bar, waggling his eyebrows at the drinks on his tray. That’s a quick way to get her back over to the table. 

They’re all gathered around when the figure from the doorway approaches. He walks normally because uhhh that’s just what he does? 

(“Keith!”) 

Okay, so he walks with a purpose. Determined? Yeah, determined footsteps. Whatever that would sound like. He takes off his cloak. He hangs up his cloak. He stands there. He’s… you know. A groc. Or half-groc. What do grocs look like again? 

(“ _Keith._ ”

“I’m not good at this! I warned you!”

“Ugh, _fine_ , let me help you.”) 

The figure approaches from the doorway, his cloak sweeping in the wind as the door shuts behind him, shutting out the chill of the night rain. The tavern bustles beyond the scope of their table, but everyone there watches this stranger approach. There’s another blast of thunder that splits the sky outside; the flash of lightning illuminates the rain-rattled windows and lights up the stranger’s face as he pushes the hood back. He wears his hair in a braid, tucked beneath the cloak and his face is handsome, stark and angular, lightly scaled along his jaw and cheeks. His eyes are discerning, cautious, guarded. Ready. 

“I’m here to join you,” the mystery stranger announces. A tail flickers back and forth beneath his cloak, giving the illusion of a wind at his ankles. 

“Why should we trust you?” Pike calls from the floor. 

“Because.” 

The others are absolutely and completely unmoved by this lack of persuasive answer. They stare at the stranger expectantly. He has nothing more to say. 

“Ugh, fine. _Okay,_ ” the groc says with a deep sigh. He closes his eyes and heaves a deep breath, supremely put upon that he has to explain this further. “I, uh, was inspired by everything you’ve done… I want to help. I know you all have your own missions, or whatever, and I want to help you. I, uh… also have dealings with Dakin?” 

(“And who he works for,” Coran reminds him.)

“And who he works for,” the mysterious stranger adds. 

The name of their latest foe sends a shiver through the group, and they look at the mysterious stranger with new interest. 

“Having a new member to the team could be advantageous,” Valayun says with a smile. “After all, you all accepted me and Pike. What’s one more, right?” 

She stands, smiling warmly at the stranger. 

“We can use all the help we can get,” she declares with a definitive nod. 

All around Valayun, the others consider and nod. All, of course, except for Jiro. 

Jiro looks at this mysterious stranger with a deep intensity, unable to tear his eyes away. Jiro finds that, even if he tries to speak, even if he tries to tear his eyes away, he simply can’t, almost as if—

 

-

 

“Okay, hold on,” Lance interrupts, waving his hands. “Coran, what are you doing?” 

“Jiro failed the charisma saving throw,” Coran explains. “The unique groc effects are working on him.” 

Shiro frowns and Keith feels his shoulders lurch up towards his ears. 

“So I turn the effect off,” Keith says. 

“You can’t,” Coran dismisses with a wave of the hand. “It’s a passive ability. Grocs are inherently alluring as a defense-mechanism. Thunderstorm Darkness would have no control over it.”

Keith crosses his arms, feeling his mood darken. He doesn’t startle when Shiro places his hand on his shoulder, but he does look up at him, frowning. Shiro smiles at him and squeezes before he looks up at Coran.

“What does it mean that my character’s affected?” 

“Nothing too serious,” Coran says, which, again, sounds vaguely ominous. “It just makes him pre-disposed to agree with Keith’s character. It’s a bigger influence on hostile enemies— if Thunderstorm Darkness were to focus, he can use the ability to disarm foes or make them into subordinates. If Jiro tries to fight against a suggestion from Keith’s character, he’ll face mental resistance and possible mental damage.” 

“Ah,” Shiro says, in a tone that Keith can’t place. 

Keith stares at Coran, alarmed. “I don’t want to mind-control Shiro’s character!” 

“It’s not mind control,” Coran answers. 

“I did fail the saving throw, Keith,” Shiro tells him. “It’s okay.” 

“No. I’ll just stop being a half-groc. I’ll be a… Klozgaal or whatever.” 

“That’s a class.” Shiro’s smiling. “And it’s Klazgool.” 

“Whatever,” Keith insists. “I don’t want to screw with your character.” 

“It’s okay,” Shiro tells him again and squeezes his shoulder. “Here. It’s not so bad. Let me just—”

 

-

 

Jiro, who’s been silent up until this moment, stands suddenly— his eyes on this new arrival. 

“It’s you. You’re the one who saved me, all those years ago.” This statement is met with silence, the others turning to look up at him. Jiro nods, his eyes trained on the stranger. “I remember. It was when I was passing through the village of Gyrnspire. I met a foe stronger than I anticipated and you came in to save me. You’re Thunderstorm Darkness, right?” 

Thunderstorm Darkness stares at Jiro.

Jiro stares back. “Right?” 

“Uh.”

“We already know each other,” Jiro explains, slowly. “Not well, perhaps, but I trust you. So it’s okay. I’m struck by how much I remember you. And suddenly I’m hit with all that gratitude I felt, all those years ago, when we first met. I’m definitely not mind-controlled right now, just happy to see you. Right?” 

“Uh. Right. Yeah.” Thunderstorm Darkness is silent for a moment, clearly taken aback, and then he adds, “I didn’t know if you’d remember me.”

“How could I ever forget you?” Jiro insists with a bright smile. “Even if I’m on my noble quest to avenge my master and to defeat the Leviathan demon, I could never forget those who saved me, to whom I owe a great debt I can never repay.”

“I— I don’t see it that way,” Thunderstorm Darkness insists, looking down and fiddling with his braid between clawed fingertips. “I— you saved me. I needed to fight those people, too. It— we helped each other?” 

“Friends,” Jiro declares as he turns back towards the others at the table. “We can trust this man. We should allow him to join us on our quests— he’ll lend us great aid. I know no man or fighter worthier or more trustworthy!”

(“That’s rich coming from somebody who’s under some magical effect,” Lance mutters.

“Shh,” says Allura.) 

Jiro’s endorsement is enough to sway the rest of the group, however, and so they raise their glasses and welcome Thunderstorm Darkness to the group. Block stands and fetches a new chair to plunk down for Thunderstorm Darkness to join the table. 

Thunderstorm Darkness continues to stand there. He uhhhhh takes the lute off his back and sets it down as he takes a seat. That’s where you keep lutes, right? He’s not playing it, though. Uh, what else? 

(“Here, Keith, let me help—”) 

Thunderstorm Darkness is welcomed to the table and made comfortable, his cloak draped across the back of his chair and his lute plucked from his back to set beside him. He introduces himself to the rest of the group, smiling thankfully at Jiro for his welcome. 

“You’re a bard!” Pike declares once Thunderstorm Darkness introduces himself. “How dumb and sooooo not like the personality you’re giving off!” 

Thunderstorm Darkness rolls his eyes. Hard. 

 

-

 

From there, the team gathers information at the bar and sets out on the session’s quest. They’re traveling back towards Block’s village, to free his home from the evil spell that left everyone stone-bound. On the way, though, they encounter a halfling child (with a ginger mustache) that insists on needing their help. They traipse through the forests and eventually come upon harpy demons.

Keith doesn’t realize that three hours have passed until the last of the harpy demons falls and the group is triumphant. Coran grins as he powers down the holomap. 

“Great work, everyone!” Coran declares. 

Keith blinks and stares at the time on his datapad. “Wow.” 

Shiro presses close to him— not quite a nudge so much as their bodies pressing together shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks in a low voice. He’s studying Keith’s face.

Keith can’t help the smile and doesn’t try to hide it. He looks up at Shiro and nods. “You know what? I actually really did.” 

“Good,” Shiro answers, beaming. “You really were starting to get the hang of it towards the end, I think.” 

The others are chatting around them, recalling exciting moments and near failures. Keith would expect Shiro to join in, but instead, Shiro’s watching him with a small, expectant smile. 

“I mean,” Keith says. “I only really got it because of you. I, uh, you know… thanks.” 

“Kind of funny, what a groc can do, huh?” Shiro asks, cheeks pink. “The, uh, aura thing.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He swallows. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s not so bad. Kinda funny, really. Kinda like… a seduction spell or something, right?” Shiro laughs. 

Keith tries to mimic the laugh, but it sounds high and squeaky in his ears. He clears his throat. 

“Yeah. Funny.” 

“I’m glad you decided to play with us,” Shiro says. “It’s better when we’re all together. And you’re pretty good at this!” 

Keith laughs. “Now you’re just being nice.” 

“No,” Shiro insists, shaking his head. He looks at Keith, sincere as he always is when he says, “I mean it.” 

He turns towards the others before Keith can protest again, complimenting each of them on their role in the story— praising Allura’s quick-thinking during a stealth fight the first night they made camp, and Pidge’s fighting skills against the goblins, and Hunk’s nat-20 roll towards the end of the fight, and even Lance’s ability to dismantle some traps the harpy demons laid down. 

Keith watches him, thinks of all the things he wants to say or could say (you’re amazing, for starters; I want to be here with you, always; thanks for thinking of me)— and instead just smiles, instead, when Shiro turns to him and praises his healing spells. 

 

-

 

Later that night, Keith’s sprawled out on his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He’s too wired to sleep— a common occurrence lately, really. Plus, the wolf’s stretched out entirely on the bed and there’s no hope of Keith squeezing in there without having to shove the wolf out of the way. And he tries to keep the shoving of the wolf to the minimum, especially since the wolf is still growing and getting significantly bigger than him with each passing day. The last thing he wants to do is set a precedent for the wolf shoving _Keith_ out of bed whenever he wants. 

Besides, the wolf deserves to sleep well just as much as anyone else. 

It’s not the first time Keith’s mind has felt like it was running away from him and so, with a sigh, he sits up and reaches behind the couch. 

He fishes around and then pulls out the old guitar. It was his dad’s, a long time ago. The wood is worn and the chords even more so. Keith spends most nights fixing it up, tuning it and maybe strumming it if he can get it to sing right. 

It’s a beat up old thing, but it centers Keith— gives his hands something to do, something to focus on. It reminds him of his dad, too. Helps him remember the nights long ago when his dad would sit out on the porch step and watch Keith sway on the tire swing. Sometimes he’d just strum and sometimes he’d play actual songs, grinning when Keith eventually wandered over closer to hear more. 

It used to hurt. There was a time when Keith was sure he’d never be able to hear the guitar strings again without feeling that ache. The memories are distant now, softened by time, like a shack buffeted by sandstorms over the course of years— glass-smooth and melancholy. Keith runs his hand along the guitar and tweaks one of the chords. It hums out in a little twang that reminds him of stargazing at night. 

He smiles to himself and strums again, feeling more centered. 

And then he hears the chime at the door. Keith’s heart leaps before it settles again. There’s only one person who would knock on his door this late at night. 

“Open,” he calls to the door, and it obeys his command, whooshing open. 

Shiro smiles as he leans in enough to keep the door from automatically shutting again but not enough to actually enter Keith’s quarters without permission. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Keith says with an answering smile, his hands gripping the guitar tight, almost guilty. He says, soft, “Come in.” 

Shiro nods and walks in enough that the door shuts behind him. “I heard you playing.” 

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“You didn’t. I was already awake,” Shiro dismisses in that practical, no-nonsense way of his that undermines the sadness of a statement. He does that a lot, Keith’s always noticed. Shiro looks at him with a smile. “Do you mind if I hang out?” 

Keith gestures towards the other end of the couch, scooting up to make room. Shiro approaches and then drops down onto it, looking sleep-worn and a little edged in the eyes. He’s wearing soft sleeping pants and a loose shirt that hangs off his shoulder. He glows in the dim half-light, his white hair bright and falling over one eye. Keith watches as Shiro settles and brushes his hair from his face. It falls back again. 

It isn’t the first time Shiro’s joined Keith when they’re both too awake to relax, too awake to ever sleep. It isn’t the first time Shiro’s seen Keith holding the guitar. He was with Keith, the night Keith decided to fly out to the shack. They both rode in Black and when they touched down, the shack was dilapidated but still standing. Barely. 

It’d taken a few nights of scavenging to be able to unearth anything salvageable from the ruins of his childhood home. His father’s guitar was one of those things. 

“I haven’t heard you play in a while,” Shiro says, and that’s true, too— the last time Keith had a chance to play was months ago. Time stretches strangely to Keith now; he didn’t realize it’d been so long, but as he thinks it, those long stretches of weeks become reality. It’s odd to think that months can pass like sand through his fingers, that he can blink and a year could pass. Maybe his time on the space whale did that. Maybe it’s just because he’s getting older. 

“Guess I was inspired from today,” Keith says with a shrug. “If I’m going to play a bard, I might as well fit the part.” 

Shiro laughs, draping his arm over the back of the couch and leaning against it, his cheek squished up against his bicep. It makes him look young, despite the heavy bags under his eyes. 

“You looked like you had fun today,” Keith continues, and strums the guitar once, letting the little twang ring out between them. He doesn’t mention the times when Shiro looked a little lost in himself, looked like he wanted to say something and didn’t. The tension in his eyes, his shoulders. 

“I did,” Shiro answers, easily. 

“You really like playing, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees. “It’s… hm. It’s a nice way for me to take my mind off things, you know? Just turn it off for a while.”

“Yeah, makes sense.” Keith can see that appeal. The guitar in his lap is testament to that. He can see how it could be the case for the game, too. He hadn’t even noticed all the hours passing, once he got used to the mechanics of the game. Everyone looked happier afterwards, a little lighter. 

Shiro nods, smiling still. “When I played that first time, I remember thinking it was kind of nice to just pretend for a while. Pretend to have some grand, personal quest, pretend to be another person entirely. But, well…” 

His voice goes thin and reedy as he trails off, mouth down-turning and something tightening in his eyes. Keith strikes the wrong chord and the guitar gives a definitive, discordant _twrrg!_ sound.

“Anyway,” Shiro says, quietly, and now it’s Keith’s heart that’s giving the pathetic, discordant twang. Shiro isn’t looking at Keith. “It’s fun. I mean… You had fun, right?” 

“Yeah,” Keith’s quick to say. “I had fun. I really did, Shiro.” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says again, staring down at his hand in his lap, bright metal and glowing blue. He flexes his fingers, curls and uncurls into a fist. He doesn’t look at Keith. “It’s good for team-building. And everyone gets to relax. So that’s good.” 

“I had fun,” Keith says again, quieter. He wants to say more, press down at what Shiro’s not saying, like an old scab. But he doesn’t. He can’t. 

“I’m glad,” Shiro says, and sounds like he means it. Keith stretches his feet out and presses his heels against Shiro’s thigh, nudging. 

Shiro doesn’t smile, but his expression relaxes. His hand drops down to curl around Keith’s ankle, squeezing once before letting go. 

Keith stares at him, helpless. He wants to insist on— something. But he doesn’t know what to say, what to do— how to reassure the silence spreading between them.

Keith clears his throat. “You, uh, want to hear a song?” 

Shiro’s smile is thin, but heartfelt, when he glances at him. “Sure, Keith. I’d… like that a lot. Please.” 

 

-

 

Monsters & Mana sessions becomes a weekly thing. Every Wednesday, the group gathers after meetings are done for the day and run the campaign. Coran is, of course, thrilled, as it means he can plan out longer, more extravagant missions beyond just one-shots. 

Today, Keith casts Vicious Mockery for the first time. Up until now, he’s mostly been using his lute as a weapon, hitting demons on the head with it until they’re beaten into bloody submission. He feels comfortable enough to actually try casting some magic beyond potions. 

“Alright, Keith,” Coran tells him. “Your roll’s a success. Why don’t you give us a sampling of what Vicious Mockery sounds like.”

“So, what, I’m just insulting the goblin?” Keith asks. 

“So devastating that it physically injures them, yes,” Coran says, sounding a bit overly gleeful. 

 

-

 

“You suck,” Thunderstorm Darkness tells the goblin. 

(The group groans, pointedly, at Keith. Hunk says, “Come on, Keith. You can do better than that.”) 

“If the roll’s already a success, it doesn’t matter what I say,” Thunderstorm Darkness declares. “I already won.”

“What are you even talking about?” Pike shouts at him from across the battlefield, giving away his stealth position. “What’s a roll? We haven’t won yet!” 

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” Thunderstorm Darkness insists. He turns back towards the goblin and strums his lute pointedly. In a devastatingly singsong-y voice, he declares, “Your ears are ugly and your nose is runny and I feel sorry for you because you have no friends!” 

The goblin gives a definitive shriek and crumbles, cowed by the onslaught of such vicious mockery. 

“Well done, Thunderstorm Darkness!” Jiro calls as he swings his sword in a gallant and valiant arc, cutting down the enemy in front of him. His armor glints majestically in the sunlight. He beams at him.

“Thanks,” Thunderstorm Darkness mutters, and definitely does not blush because he’s a cool half-groc who’s too busy sending some more Vicious Mockery in another goblin’s direction. 

The battle won, the group starts looting. Meklavar cackles when she unearths a large amethyst from one of the goblin’s grubby pockets, holding it up to the light with a low, impressed whistle. Pike finds some coins and Block finds some rations. 

“Do we need to take a short rest?” Meklavar asks. “How are our injuries?”

“Thunderstorm Darkness casts Healing Word on Jiro,” Thunderstorm Darkness announces, lifting his lute and strumming a low, lulling melody. 

Jiro’s encased in a shimmering, white light, magic swirling around him. 

“You’re, uh, feeling really healthy and strong. I mean, you’re always strong,” Thunderstorm Darkness says. He clears his throat, striking a sour note on his lute but recovering quickly. “But now you’re feeling really light on your feet. Like you could lift all of us in your arms no problem. You’re strong. You’re healed. You feel really good.” 

“Thank you,” Jiro says once the magic dissipates. His smile is bright as he looks at Thunderstorm Darkness. 

“I could use some healing, too,” Pike says.

“Sorry. Just used the last spell slot.” Thunderstorm Darkness tosses a healing potion at him instead. 

“Jiro didn’t even need healing! For once,” Pike protests as he chugs down the potion. He pulls a face at the acidic taste. 

“Jiro’s our strongest fighter,” Thunderstorm Darkness insists. “It makes sense to keep him safe and healthy.” 

“Besides, he’s also the most at risk of dying, considering his track record,” Meklavar says as an aside that’s not really an aside. 

“He hasn’t died once since Ke— Thunderstorm Darkness joined, though,” Block says. “That’s good, right?” 

“He’s good at saving me,” Jiro says with a small sigh, his face flushed. 

At this point, everyone’s used to Jiro’s failed charisma check on Thunderstorm Darkness, and so they kindly choose to ignore the sigh and flush. 

“I’ll always be here to save you,” Thunderstorm Darkness insists, eyes intense. “All my Healing Words are for you, uh— Jiro.”

“Wow, thanks for remembering us, too,” Pike mutters. 

 

-

 

“Shiro, do a charisma saving throw,” Coran interrupts. 

“Huh?” Shiro blinks, tearing his eyes away from Keith and blinking at Coran instead. He’s already grabbing for the die, though. “Why?” 

“Thunderstorm Darkness said something that would trigger the groc’s aura effects. You need to see if you fall deeper into it.” 

“No, I turn it off!” Keith insists. “I just said the truth!” 

Shiro rolls the die. 

“You passed,” Coran says, sounding disappointed. He crosses his arms. “I still think you should be doing more to demonstrate Jiro’s continued reaction to Thunderstorm Darkness’ effects, Shiro.” 

“This is the way Jiro would act if he were… er, attracted to him,” Shiro mutters. He looks at the board for a moment, glances at Keith, and then skitters his gaze away to meet Coran’s eyes.

Coran looks unconvinced but prompts, “Well, what happens next?” 

“Jiro turns to Thunderstorm Darkness and puts his hand on his arm, squeezing,” Shiro describes, looking down at Keith’s and Shiro’s figurines standing near each other. “He says— thank you. I know I’m always safe if you’re watching my back.”

“Always,” Keith insists, eyes on Shiro. He clears his throat, blushing. “Uh, I mean. Thunderstorm Darkness is… is always— he’s grateful for everything Jiro’s done for him. It’s— it’s the least he can do. And all that. It’s not— it’s not like it’s a sense of duty. He just…”

“Jiro understands,” Shiro says. 

Pidge flops back in her seat. “I think I need a snack break.” 

 

-

 

Shiro’s joined Keith in his room nearly every night for the past week. They sit on the couch and just hang out, mostly. Sometimes they talk, but usually Keith just tunes his dad’s guitar and Shiro does some reading. 

It’s quiet and it’s comfortable, and deep down in the back of Keith’s mind, Keith considers what would happen if he were to just ask Shiro to stay— ask him to sleep in the same bed with him, just them. To just let him relax. To just hold him in his arms. 

Stupid fantasies, really. He strums his guitar and imagines turning to Shiro and saying, _I’m in love with you. Are you in love with me, too?_

Embarrassing. Absurd. He plays the guitar and watches Shiro read, watches Shiro’s eyes get droopy, watches Shiro tilt his head and smile at Keith, like Keith is the only person in the entire universe. Keith smiles back, and plays quieter— tries to lull Shiro to sleep the only way he knows how, to treat Shiro gently in a world that wants to only exhaust him. 

 

-

 

At the next Wednesday night Monsters & Mana session, Jiro dies. 

They’re fighting a Colossal Bear, a monster nearly the size of the village they need to protect. They’re badly injured and beaten down. Meklavar’s prone and two hit points away from death, and Valayun’s not too far away from unconsciousness herself. 

The Colossal Bear rears up, taller than the trees around them, claws raised. It’s aimed right for Thunderstorm Darkness, who’s pinned down between the bear’s massive range and a deep pit that, as far as they could all tell before the battle started, goes far too deep to survive a fall. 

“It’s your turn, Shiro. What do you do?” Coran asks. 

“Okay. Jiro jumps in front of Thunderstorm Darkness to protect him against the oncoming attack.” 

“What? No! Thunderstorm Darkness jumps in front of Jiro, instead!” Keith insists, nearly dropping his datapad. 

“Keith, it isn’t your turn,” Coran reminds him. 

“I don’t care!” Keith insists. “Fuck turn order!” 

“Jiro blocks Thunderstorm Darkness and then uses Divine Smite against the Colossal Bear.” Shiro rolls. “It’s a hit.” 

“Excellent!” Coran declares. “You deal damage and the Colossal Bear stumbles back— but a moment later he’s pushing forward and swiping down against you, Jiro.” 

“I jump in front of Jiro!” Keith shouts.

“It’s not your _turn_ , Keith,” Pidge groans. “Just relax.” 

“The bear hits you with a claw attack, Jiro, and it sends you flying— straight towards the pit. You’ll need to make a dexterity saving throw to see if you catch the side with your sword.” 

“I grab him!” Keith insists. 

Coran ignores him. “Roll, Shiro.” 

Shiro rolls a one. The group goes quiet. 

“Oh no,” Allura breathes. 

Coran lets the silence stretch and then he folds his hands together and says in a deep, booming voice: “The attack is too strong— Jiro’s hit too hard and he goes flying back towards the pit. He stumbles and falls. Thunderstorm Darkness makes a valiant attempt at grabbing him but it’s too late, his cloak ripping away in Thunderstorm Darkness’ hand. Jiro stumbles, falls back, and disappears from sight.” 

“No!” Keith shouts, standing so abruptly that the table the holomap rests on rattles. “I jump in after him.” 

“Keith, we’re in the middle of a battle!” Hunk protests.

“I jump in after him,” Keith insists. It’s absurd that his body starts shaking at the thought of it all, hands clenched. He turns to Coran. “ _I jump in after him!_ ” 

“You try,” Coran says. “But as you jump, you find your path blocked— there’s a magical barrier over the pit, rising up as soon as Jiro disappears from sight. It’s unbreakable. You can’t reach him.” 

Keith’s shaking, still on his feet, hands clenched. 

He startles when Shiro touches his hand, tugging once until Keith sits back down beside him. He smiles at him, and he doesn’t look sad or upset. 

“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. He’s the longest-surviving Paladin I’ve played yet.” He’s already tapping away on his datapad. He squeezes Keith’s hand. “It’s okay, Keith. He’s just a character.” 

“I assume you’re going to be a paladin again, Shiro?” Coran asks, resigned. 

Shiro studies his datapad, silent for a beat too long. He smiles. “Yeah. I guess so. Why break tradition, right?” 

Ten minutes later, the group turns the corner and Hiiro emerges from the woods, looking exactly like Jiro and declaring himself the long-lost triplet to both Shiro and Jiro. Keith thinks the team accepts him too easily, insists they should go back to the pit and find a way to break through and get to Jiro— but nobody listens, not even Hiiro. 

“It’s okay, Keith,” Shiro tells him again and Keith can’t explain why the group’s indifference agitates him so deeply.

Hiiro fails the charisma saving throw against Thunderstorm Darkness, too. 

 

-

 

“Hey,” Shiro murmurs, once the week’s session wraps up and the Paladins disperse. He catches Keith gently by the elbow, stilling him. “Want to go stargaze with me?” 

It’s a rhetorical question, really— as if Keith will say no. It’s late, but Keith leads the way to Black and she flies them out into the desert. It’s a quiet ride and Keith’s grateful for that, grateful that Shiro lets him sit in this silence. Grateful that Shiro lets him collect his thoughts and try to organize the tumble of emotions squirming in his gut. 

When they land at Keith’s favorite spot for watching the sunset, it’s dark and still. The sunset is hours past, but the spot is still soothing, in its own way. Keith glances back at Shiro and finds Shiro’s eyes already on him. Both of them know how to navigate Black even in the darkness, and together they climb out and up on top of her head. The entire time, they don’t speak. 

They look out over the stars. The wolf curls up at Keith’s left and Shiro sits down at his right, stretching his legs out. 

“You alright?” Shiro prompts, after the silence’s stretched on so long that it feels almost permanent. The stillness shatters and there is only Shiro. It’s natural, of course, for Shiro to check in on Keith, so Keith isn’t surprised that eventually they’d talk. 

Keith vaguely thinks that he should be the one doing this now— now that he’s the leader of Voltron and the Black Paladin. But then, it’s Shiro. And Shiro’s always looking out for him.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Keith says. He picks at a piece of sand clinging to his knee. 

“You seemed really upset,” Shiro says. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

And that’s always been Shiro’s way, Keith thinks— coming to meet Keith on his level, always there if he needs it. Never insisting. Never demanding. Keith knows, really, that this is how Shiro prefers others approach him, too— Shiro is so quiet about everything inside his mind. He so rarely speaks about it, about anything. It’s what keeps Keith from ever insisting— keeps telling himself that Shiro will talk to him when he’s ready. 

This is how it’s always been for them. Keith can be patient. That’s what Shiro’s always telling him, isn’t it? 

He could say any number of things— anything at all. It isn’t about the game. It isn’t about the characters. It isn’t anything about that. It’s something bigger and wider, something shredding apart inside of Keith. There’s everything he could say and hasn’t said yet. 

So, instead, he says: “Guess I got really attached to Jiro.” 

Shiro laughs, a quiet sound whipped away in the desert stillness. “Yeah. Guess I did, too. It’s too bad.” 

“It’s not fair,” Keith insists. “Nobody else has lost their characters. Everyone just— goes with it too easily. We could have explored that pit. Why did it have a magical barrier? Why couldn’t I go after you?” 

“I think Coran’s punishing me for always picking a paladin,” Shiro teases, laughing. He bumps his shoulder against Keith’s when he doesn’t smile. “Hey. It’s okay. If it really bothered me, I’d tell him. They’re just characters. They aren’t real. By the end of this campaign, poor Shiro might secretly be an octuplet.” 

He grins at Keith and, finally, Keith manages a small smile he doesn’t quite feel. He sighs and slumps forward, pressing his forehead against Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro accepts the touch, shifting a little so the angle is better for Keith. Keith feels him all around him, feels the ghost of his breath in his hair, sees the rise and fall of his chest. A moment later, Shiro wraps his arms around him, settling Keith gently into his arms. Keith shivers, and not because the desert gets cold at night. 

“I just… I. I liked playing with him,” Keith says. His voice is quiet, uncertain. He doesn’t look at Shiro. “I like playing with you. I’d— you know. Thunderstorm Darkness would follow the Shirogane clan across any campaign, I guess.” 

Shiro chuckles and it sounds so close to his ear. “Hey. Him too. They make a good team, don’t they?”

Keith’s stomach churns, his heart hammering in his chest. The urge to say more is so strong, the words thick in his throat. Instead, Keith only sighs and presses one hand tight against Shiro’s back, hugging him. He’s so solid beneath his palm, warm and solid and _here._

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, voice thin. He touches Shiro’s arm and squeezes, clenching his eyes shut. “They really do.” 

 

-

 

The next night, Keith fiddles with his guitar. He thinks about Shiro— sitting on the Black Lion and watching the stars. He thinks about Shiro with the starlight in his silver hair, the moonlight sparkling in his eyes.

He thinks about the moment Shiro caught him looking and turned away from the cosmos to smile at him, laughing. “What?” he’d asked, “Something on my face?” 

At the time, Keith only shook his head and said, “No, it’s the ears. Your ears are so big.”

Now, though, he strums the guitar. It’s still a little off-key, but it doesn’t matter. A song starts forming in his head and he plucks at the strings, biting his lip as he concentrates. He plays it softly, quiet; Shiro hasn’t come tonight, which means he’s actually sleeping for once. 

The song unfolds beneath Keith’s fingertips, then flows out beyond him— lost to the empty space where Shiro should have been.

 

-

 

In the end, Keith thinks Lance was probably right about the irony of Keith playing a bard. Keith’s strength isn’t his words. He’s gotten better at improvising the spells for Vicious Mockery and Healing Word, but it still feels clumsy on his tongue. 

Monsters & Mana itself leaves him feeling clumsy— it involves so much talking, so much describing. Keith’s never been good at that, no matter how often Hunk or Shiro sweep in to help fill out the explanations and descriptions for him. He’s getting better, but he’s still not good.

At night, after the sessions, after the long meetings, after being a leader in an intergalactic war, he slips into his room and plays his guitar. The song he’s working on is coming together in so many strings, but the words are stilted on his tongue when he tries them. Shiro tells him he has a good singing voice, the few times he’s heard it, but Keith feels unskilled in it, feels clumsy and awkward.

He wishes there was an easier way— something better than trying to speak everything he doesn’t say. He thinks of Shiro, bathed in sunlight and bathed in starlight, thinks about telling him all the things he still hasn’t said.

It’s a ridiculous thought that goes nowhere.

He drags his fingers over the strings of the guitar, as if that might provide him any insight. 

 

-

 

“Alright, you’re in the lair of the dragon,” Coran says, the holomap changing from the hallways they’ve been navigating to the wide-open cavern. “It’s full of treasures untold, but no dragon.”

“This sounds familiar,” Hunk says, suspiciously, as he eyes Coran. 

“We go in!” Lance declares. 

“Uh, _he_ might go in,” Keith says. “The rest of us are going to look for traps.” 

The group proceeds cautiously— and the dragon emerges with a shriek from one of the caverns, breathing heavy fire towards them. 

The battle ensues. Keith’s better at this part— better at just throwing his weapons around and fighting blindly, rather than trying to describe how well he takes a sip of beer at a tavern or whatever else. It’s easier to focus on this. 

But then—

“Soon, you realize— this isn’t a dragon at all, but an underling to the dreaded leviathan demon Shiro, Jiro, and Hiiro have all been hunting.” 

“Oh no!” Pike gasps. 

“It changes right in front of you, still looking dragon-like, but more demonic than natural.”

The fight ensues and Keith throws himself into that, eyes on the figurines, planning out tactics and strategies, sending Healing Words towards Hiiro and anyone else who might need it. 

“The demon gives a mighty roar and collapses, dead,” Coran declares. His smirk is definitely disconcerting, but then, Keith’s also used to Coran looking slightly demonic (not unlike the dragon) whenever he’s playing Lore Master. “It seems you’ve won.”

Keith’s suspicious based purely on Coran’s reaction, but he lets the others dive into looting. 

He looks at Coran and says, “I use my perception to see if there’s anything I haven’t noticed yet.”

The others pause, looking up. Coran’s eyes narrow. 

“Go ahead and roll, Bard.” 

Keith does and rolls an eighteen. He gives Coran a vaguely smug look as Coran’s eyes narrow further.

Coran sniffs. “Thunderstorm Darkness, you notice, as the others are digging through the treasures, that you sense a presence. Someone is nearby and approaching.”

“Can I tell if they have ill-intentions?” Keith asks.

“You can’t,” Coran says. “You have only a few moments before whoever it is appears. What do you do?” 

“I move to stand between the passageway and Hiiro.” 

Shiro gives him a faint smile. “When Thunderstorm Darkness approaches him, Hiiro turns towards him and follows where he’s directed his attention.” 

Coran takes a deep breath. “A moment later, the figure appears in the passageway, sword drawn. Thunderstorm Darkness, you recognize him immediately, of course—”

 

-

 

In the passageway stands a recognizable figure, dressed in familiar paladin armor, his headpiece glinting in the lanternlight of the cavern. 

“Jiro?” Thunderstorm Darkness gasps. 

Jiro’s eyes lock with Thunderstorm Darkness and he steps forward. Then Jiro’s running across the cavern towards him and Hiiro. Despite Thunderstorm Darkness’ attempts to stand between them, Hiiro pushes him out of the way and charges forward to meet him.

The two brothers start fighting. 

The others are quick to notice the scuffle, standing and shouting their surprise. It’s over too quickly for them to aid— Jiro runs his sword through Hiiro, who collapses with a pained groan. 

“What?” Thunderstorm Darkness gasps. 

“He was a plant from the Leviathan demon,” Jiro declares. “He was made to lure you all here in the hopes of killing you all.”

 

-

 

“What? Wait. Coran,” Lance says, shaking his hands out to grab Coran’s attention. “Are you serious?” 

“It’s a common tactic of Leviathan demons,” Coran says with a decisive nod. “None of you passed the perception check that would have made Hiiro’s mustache noticeable.” 

 

-

 

Sure enough, when the group turns towards Hiiro again, collapsed on the floor, he looks exactly like Jiro— except for the ginger mustache, clear now that the enchantment has dropped. He disappears in a wisp of orange smoke, absorbed back to its host, wherever it might lurk. 

“I cast Healing Word on Jiro,” Thunderstorm Darkness declares, strumming his lute in a soothing lullaby as the magic culminates and circles Jiro. “You’re safe now. You’re here. You’re not injured and you feel yourself growing stronger. You’re safe. You’re here. You made it back to us.” 

Jiro sways once the magic dissipates and Thunderstorm Darkness is quick to stride forward and catch Jiro before he collapses. 

“I found you,” Jiro whispers. “I couldn’t let that evil thing hurt you.” 

“Evil?” Block asks. “I mean… Hiiro wasn’t evil, was he?”

“He was,” Jiro insists. 

“He might not have realized what he was doing,” Valayun says gently. 

“Yeah,” Meklavar agrees. “He helped us against that giant spider and—”

“He was _evil_ ,” Jiro snaps. Thunderstorm Darkness tightens his hold on Jiro to keep him upright, but Jiro shrugs out of the hold, taking a few steps towards where Hiiro once laid before wisping away into smoke. He kicks at the headpiece and it rattles away, bouncing off the floor. “He was evil.” 

 

-

 

The group goes quiet, the atmosphere at the table suddenly heavy. Shiro’s hands are clenched together on the table and he’s staring at the figurine. 

“Well,” Coran says, after a moment. “This seems like a good stopping point. Next week, we can figure out more about what the leviathan demon planned.” 

Shiro stands quickly with the others. Usually, he’s the last to leave, always wanting to discuss things more with Coran. He looks rattled, though. 

Keith’s already reaching out to touch Shiro, but he’s stepping away from the table.

“Well, I’m beat,” Shiro says, hands on his hips. He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “See you guys tomorrow.” 

Keith’s on his feet and following after him before he can even think about it. He jumps over the back of the seats to get to the door faster, trailing Shiro. 

“Shiro,” he calls out, quickening his pace down the hallway. 

Shiro pauses to let Keith catch up. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shiro says, immediately, once Keith is close enough. He doesn’t snap at Keith or yell, but it’s the shortest Keith’s heard Shiro’s tone in a while, and there’s something prickly in his voice. More than that, though, there’s a resignation, something tired and thin. His shoulders are tense, as if he expects Keith to insist and he’s already fighting back against it. 

“Okay,” Keith answers, voice soft. He hesitates and then touches Shiro’s arm. Shiro doesn’t shrug him away. “Hey. Shiro. It’s okay.” 

“Thanks,” Shiro says, shortly, and then, as expected, shrugs away from the touch. “I’ll see you later, Keith.”

Keith watches him go, unsure if he should follow or not.

 

-

 

He gives Shiro about an hour before he goes hunting him down. He grabs his guitar from behind his couch, thinking that music always seems to settle Shiro— or what can pass for music when it’s just Keith fiddling with the chords. He slings the strap across his shoulder and the guitar settles at his back, then leaves to look for Shiro. 

He finds him on the observation deck. It’s the first place Keith looks after Shiro’s room, and he’s not surprised to find him here. It’s a nice enough spot to do stargazing when they’re not able to race out into the desert at a moment’s notice.

He knows Shiro senses him there, because he tilts his head just slightly, not looking at him but certainly hearing him. Keith made his footsteps loud enough that Shiro would hear his approach, would be able to hide back in the shadows if he didn’t want to be found. 

Keith watches him for a moment, the way stillness settles around Shiro, the way he stands there, arms folded over the railing in a still silence. 

Shiro’s silences are different now. Keith remembers a time, before Kerberos, before everything, when Shiro could be silent for so long, always watching the stars with a hint of a smile on his face. Shiro was content and comfortable in silence. He never seemed to find it scratchy or empty the way Keith can, the way his skin crawls if he’s alone and silent for too long. Sometimes it reminds Keith too much about being alone in a desert for a year, made only of open wounds and deep, unquenchable longing. 

Now though, Shiro’s silences take on a different thread. He stares off into space and disappears inside himself. 

Keith watches Shiro stand in that silence, staring out at the horizon beyond the glass of the observation deck. He watches as the wolf flickers into existence near Shiro with a flash of blue and the burning smell of ozone. He watches the wolf approach Shiro, tail flicking, and bumps against his hand. Keith watches as Shiro, right hand open and ready, hesitates, then leans down to touch him.

“You know,” Keith calls out. “He likes it when his left ear is scratched. He prefers counterclockwise.”

Shiro glances up at him, smiles, and then does as instructed. The wolf lets out a keening whine and jumps up into Shiro’s hand, pressing more firmly, until Shiro’s scratching just the way he likes. 

Keith takes that as his cue to approach, sliding up to Shiro’s side and watching him pet the wolf. 

“Hey,” Shiro says. He looks at Keith. “Sorry I stormed off.”

“If that’s storming, I don’t know what you call Lance every time a session ends with Pike knocked prone,” Keith answers with a small smile. He presses his shoulder up against Shiro’s. Quietly, he says, “Shiro. You’re fine.” 

Shiro laughs, ducking his head, his smile warmer than it was a moment ago. Something leaps in Keith’s chest and then settles. 

“… Do you want to talk about it now?” Keith asks.

Shiro shakes his head. “I don’t know. Kind of, but also… I don’t know if I’m ever going to be ready to talk about it.” 

Keith thinks of all those weeks, all those months, traveling across the universe in a frantic bid to get back home. How they hit the ground running, fighting so many battles at once. How, in all that time, Shiro never spoke about what happened to him, any of it. 

“I get it,” Keith says, quiet, thinking of all the things he’s never told Shiro, all the things he’s thought about talking about and never doing so. How time keeps passing and passing, and distance makes everything feel less insistent. 

The silence pulls between them, locking them in an orbit. Shiro stretches his back with a sigh, and the wolf presses against his leg, holding him up. Keith hops up onto the barrier between observation deck and glass plating. 

Keith thinks that’ll be it— that he’ll sit here in silence with Shiro and that will be enough. Sometimes, Keith thinks, that has to be enough. He can stay by Shiro’s side and help him and that will be enough. They don’t need to speak to understand each other. They don’t need to talk about the wide chasm of unspoken things between them in order to know one another. 

He pulls his guitar off his back and settles it in his lap. He glances at Shiro, pausing. Shiro looks at him, eyes the guitar, and smiles— it touches his eyes, makes them glow like starlight. Keith smiles back at him, helplessly, and ducks his head, studying the guitar as he strums a few times, then starts plucking an absentminded not-song, something melodic but not quite centered. 

He can focus on that, on helping the tension leech from Shiro. This is enough. This is more than enough. 

“I’m really messed up, Keith,” Shiro says in a quiet voice, after the silence stretches like a sea between them. Keith’s fingers still on the guitar. 

_You’re not,_ Keith wants to say, wants to shout it, scream it at an ugly universe that constantly hurts Shiro, enough to make him think it’s his fault rather than everybody else’s. _You could never be_ , he wants to say. _Never._

“I mean,” Keith says, instead, voice slow and careful. “Everybody’s a little messed up, right? If you weren’t at all, after everything… I don’t know. You’d be a psychopath.”

Shiro huffs a breath, something that’s almost a laugh. 

“If you’re messed up,” Keith insists, studying his frets, thumbing at them without changing the tension in the strings, if only to give him something to do. “Then I am, too.” 

Shiro’s smile is a fragile thing, tilted at the side. He shakes his head. “You’re— perfect, Keith.”

Keith refuses to blush, shaking his head, too. He grips his guitar tighter. “I’m messed up. Or, I was. Maybe I used to be more messed up. But you still took a chance on me, Shiro. So, you know— I’m never going to think you’re messed up. Or, messed up in a way I can’t handle. Maybe you’re messed up in a way that fits with how I’m messed up.” 

He isn’t quite sure what he’s saying and he’s definitely blushing now. He ducks his head and strums the guitar, a wayward collection of notes— not quite a song, but not quite tuning, either. He doesn’t dare look up to see Shiro’s reaction, although his body itches to do so, anxious over the long silence that stretches between them. 

He looks up only when he senses Shiro shifting, terrified he’s about to leave, but Shiro’s merely moving closer towards him, his hand covering Keith’s on his guitar. Keith swallows and lets him, eyes snagged on Shiro’s. Shiro looks up at him and Keith worries he might just straight-up fall off the railing if he’s not careful. But, it’s almost comfortable, poised above Shiro like this, holding his hand. 

“Thanks, Keith,” is all Shiro says and squeezes his hand. And that’s enough.

Keith turns his hand to grip Shiro’s fiercely, and squeezes. “I mean it.” 

“I know,” Shiro answers. His smile is paper-thin, but heartfelt. “I… I don’t know if I’m ever going to be ready to talk about— everything. You know?”

“I know,” Keith answers, immediate. “I understand. Shiro—” He gulps down a shallow breath, squeezing Shiro’s hand tight. “You could never talk about it with me and it wouldn’t matter. I’m still going to be here.” 

Shiro nods, his smile a shadow. “Thanks.” 

“I mean it,” Keith insists. “I’m always here, okay? I’m— I’ll, um, you know. Every paladin needs a bard, right? They can’t sing their own praises, so, you know…” 

He trails off, feeling lame and stupid and foolish. But Shiro laughs, bright and surprised. He shifts, leaning his hip up against the observation barrier, smiling up at Keith. 

“That’s right,” Shiro answers. “Where would I be without my edgy bard, always ready to lift me up?” 

“Well. You’re always willing to cast Heroism on me, so it’s just payback,” Keith answers. He snorts. “This is the geekiest conversation I’ve ever had.” 

Shiro grins and laughs again. “Just a little geeky.” 

Keith ducks his head and laughs, too. He looks at his guitar and takes in a deep breath. Heroism, indeed— a spell meant to keep a character brave, fearing no battle too intense. It feels like the spell’s been cast on him now. That’s what he tells himself, at least, as a wave washes over him, something like determination but a lot more like hope. He closes his eyes and steadies himself, his hand tightening on the neck of his guitar.

“Hey, Shiro?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I, uh. I’ve— I’ve been working on something. Can I—”

He lets go of Shiro’s hand so he can adjust the guitar in his lap. Shiro blinks at him and then tilts his head.

“Yeah, sure. Go for it.” 

He’s always willing to trust Keith, he thinks, even in stupid things like this. He takes in a steadying breath and starts playing the guitar with purpose. It’s tuned about as well as an old, beat-up guitar can be, especially one that lived in sand and the elements for a few years while Keith was gone. 

He plays the opening chords. It’s a simple song. Keith is no musician. His father had a large arsenal of songs, but despite Keith masquerading as a bard for a make-believe game, he doesn’t think he has much musical talent to speak of. It doesn’t matter. That isn’t the point. 

When Keith starts singing, Shiro whips his head up to stare at him. Keith refuses to budge from his spot on the railing, face bright red.

“Keith, what—”

“It’s rude to interrupt,” Keith fumbles, losing the chords. He gives Shiro a wide-eyed look, blushing. “Just— listen?”

“Oh,” Shiro whispers, lips parting. “Sorry.” 

“I— uh. I wrote it for you. So just listen, okay?”

He settles back with a nod, silent, and watches him. “Yeah, Keith.”

“But don’t look at me while I sing.” 

Shiro’s expression ripples, charmed, and then he obediently turns, folding his arms against the railing and staring out over the horizon. He doesn’t look at Keith, but Keith still feels that intense sensation of having Shiro’s attention on him.

Keith starts from the beginning again, pretending his hands aren’t shaking. He breaks his eyes from Shiro and focuses. He starts singing again and flinches when his voice cracks on the second note. It doesn’t matter. Shiro won’t judge him for it, so he keeps going. 

It’s a stupid, simple song. It’s a collection of thoughts and feelings he can’t put to words accurately, and the lyrics themselves are fumbling, pathetic things that either barely rhyme or rhyme too much. They don’t matter as much as the music. He only knows a few chords, but that doesn’t matter, either. What matters is the feeling behind it.

He hunches his back, face red, and pours everything he has into the way his fingers move along the strings, the way his voice cracks and wavers along with the music. It’s hardly a performance. It’s no good, Keith knows. But that isn’t the point—

It’s meant only for Shiro. It’s only for Shiro. He closes his eyes and fumbles over one chord change and then keeps going, focusing. The more he sings, the firmer his voice becomes, deeper. It sounds honeyed, low and amber, meant only for Shiro’s ears. He doesn’t dare look at Shiro, but he knows Shiro’s obeying him, watching the sky and not him. 

When the song finishes, he lets the echoing music fade away slowly. His entire body is a livewire, on fire and ready to burst. He’s shaking all over now that the impulse has left him. He’s left with the resounding thought of, _What the hell was I thinking?_

He gulps. 

“Okay,” Keith whispers, voice shaky. 

He finally dares to glance over at Shiro. Shiro’s looking back at him now, eyes wide and full of awe. It’s undeserved— Keith is no musician, no singer. He feels his face turn as red as his uniform. He refuses to shake more, refuses to fling his guitar at Shiro and run out of here, or dive at the wolf and ask him to whisk him away, anywhere but here. 

He meets Shiro’s eyes and holds it. 

“Wow, Keith,” Shiro whispers. 

“That bad?” Keith asks. He means it as a joke, but his voice sounds breathless and gasping, desperate. 

“Perfect,” Shiro says. “You’re perfect.” 

It’s absurd praise, but Keith basks in it anyway. He sucks in a deep breath and gives him a shaky smile. “Yeah?” 

“You really wrote that?” Shiro asks. 

“You’re not allowed to say it’s good. It’s not. It’s nothing,” Keith answers. “I just, uh— you know. There’s a lot I don’t talk about either, and I thought…”

He trails off, losing his words, as he looks at Shiro. 

Shiro smiles back at him, something soft in his eyes. 

It’s almost exactly like taking a breath. One moment, they’re looking at each other, and the next, Keith watches Shiro’s eyes flicker— from Keith’s eyes down to his mouth. Keith _sees it happen._ It’s a strange observation, even stranger still when he realizes he’s drifting closer down towards Shiro and Shiro’s angling his face up to meet him. 

When they’re kissing, Keith doesn’t remember physically moving towards him, doesn’t remember who drifted closer first. He knows he lets out a breath when their mouths meet, but after that, everything breaks down into shimmering starlight. He breathes out and he sinks forward, his mouth pressing to Shiro’s, his breath folding around his. 

Shiro cups his cheek and kisses him, long and slow. He pulls Keith’s breath past his teeth., and he swallows a small gasp. He thinks he hears Shiro make a sound, broken and needy and desperate, but it’s hard to say what he hears over the pounding of his own heart.

He cups his hand over Shiro’s, keeping it pressed there to his cheek. He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him—

The world melts away. There’s only the way it feels to kiss Shiro, to feel his mouth slanted against his, the pillow of his breath against his teeth, the slide of his tongue against his lip, the feeling of nothing and everything. Only Shiro. There’s a symphony trilling in his heart. 

When they pull back, they linger close. Keith can feel Shiro’s breath to his. He watches Shiro’s eyes flicker open, cautious and hopeful. Up close, it’s impossible not to see it all, every word Shiro’s never spoken.

Keith tips forward, pressing his forehead to his. 

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, an unhinged sound that punches out of him. 

Keith smiles, shaky and absurd. Hopeful. He touches Shiro’s cheek, his fingertips brushing his jaw. “Shiro, I—” 

He’s shivering so much, it’s full-bodied and obvious. Shiro shifts, presses closer, and curls his arms around Keith. He nearly lifts him off the barrier’s edge, but not quite. His hold is firm, secured and Keith’s never felt safer. He closes his eyes, letting out a shaky little breath. 

“Sorry. I…” he exhales, derisive towards himself. “Words.”

“… I promise I’ll say it back,” Shiro whispers, and it steadies the whirlwind of the unspoken inside of Keith, snaps it all into focus. Shiro understands. Of course he does. “Or, I could say it first?” 

“I’ve already said it, to be fair,” Keith says.

“Not to me,” Shiro answers. He’s quiet for a moment. Keith can feel his brow furrow against his forehead. Keith wants to protest, but Shiro just sighs and admits, “Kind of me. I mean, I… wasn’t myself.” 

Keith thinks of Shiro’s reaction, during the game— the insistence on being evil. He breathes out and cups Shiro’s face, thumbs fanning over his cheekbones. 

“I love you,” he says, presses everything he’s never said into those three words. He’s a cup overflowing. He’s everything and nothing at once. He’s Shiro’s. 

_You’re not evil. You were never evil,_ he wants to insist, but he knows to be patient. Shiro will talk to him about it when he’s ready. He might never be ready and that’s okay. It changes nothing. 

Shiro shivers. Keith can feel him shiver beneath his hands. 

“I love you, too,” he murmurs back, eyes blinking open and bright, staring back at Keith— recognition and love and trust. 

Still, hearing the words after spending so long sure he’d never hear them back— Keith sighs shakily and tips forward, kissing Shiro again. And again. And again. 

He kisses him enough times to make up for all the times he thought to say it and never did. For all the times he wanted to kiss him and never let himself think it.

He shifts closer and Shiro shifts back. Keith nearly protests until he realizes Shiro’s grabbing his dad’s guitar from his lap and setting it down, saving it from an almost fall. 

“Oh,” Keith says. 

“A bard has to take care of his weapons,” Shiro teases, his smile boyish and shy. “How else are you going to seduce unsuspecting paladins?” 

“Oh, shut up,” Keith says, without heat, and drags Shiro up for another kiss. Shiro laughs against his mouth and it’s the sweetest, surest sound in the world. 

Keith wraps his arms tight around Shiro and drags him in close, laying worship to Shiro not in words but in the press of his mouth to his.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
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>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
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>  **ETA:** Huge thanks to Ana for drawing [fanart](https://twitter.com/shiningwills/status/1099748194106273792) for this fic. Thank you! ♥
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/stardropdream) // [Dreamwidth](https://stardropdream.dreamwidth.org/)


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